


someone is waiting

by horaetio



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: BJ eventually makes it to maine, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War, Slow Burn, Soft "Trapper" John McIntyre, lots of sondheim references, secondary houlifield content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28361388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horaetio/pseuds/horaetio
Summary: “i’m right here, hawkeye.” it’s BJ. it could be no one else.MASH but make it sondheim; a hunnihawk fic.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan/Helen Whitfield
Comments: 44
Kudos: 98





	1. elusive you

**Author's Note:**

> this is lovingly, self-indulgently, _blatantly_ ripped off of sondheim’s _company_ and much of the rest of the sondheim dramatic universe (SDU), featuring some frank sinatra, gene kelly, frank o’hara, and chet baker. purposefully non-linear and decidedly less cynical than its source material. however, unlike company, we do get a soft romantic endgame for our fave doctors (and for our fave nurses, too). many MANY thanks to the lovely [@gayfranzkafka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayfranzkafka/) for beta reading this for months. playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3YOboXE1GHSehon59vbDkT?si=WTvQM6Y9R2O2px5Hpjfccw) if you want to listen along, notes will eventually be at the end of the fic for the full track listing and other details.

It’s not Hawkeye’s birthday. It’s nowhere close to Hawkeye’s birthday. And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he finds himself letting BJ drag him to the mess tent for his third 32nd birthday of the year.

He knows why BJ is doing this, finds it endearing, even—he knows that BJ wants to lift spirits, give everybody a reason to celebrate and find a split second of joy between the horrors. But if he expects Hawkeye to fake his way through yet _another_ birthday, he’s got another thing coming.

“Beej,” Hawkeye protests, “let’s cut out the many happy returns, I don’t want—”

“Come on,” BJ says, placing a party hat on Hawkeye’s head. He tucks the elastic under Hawkeye’s chin and pats his cheek, and Hawkeye wills himself not to blush. “You're gonna love it.”

“It’s not my birthday! My birthday’s not for months! _And_ you’ve already done this _twice_!”

“Hawk, will you look around?” BJ gestures into the mess tent. “See how _depressed_ these people are? They need something to do! A surprise birthday party is just the thing to cheer them up.”

“When it really is my birthday, nobody’ll believe me!”

“I’ll believe you,” BJ grins, and before Hawkeye can protest any further, the door to the mess tent swings open and he’s greeted with an overwhelming amount of applause. He already despises this.

“Hello everyone, today is NOT—”

“—just any day here at the 4077th!” BJ interrupts gleefully, earning a scowl from Hawkeye. “And yes, our birthday boy would _love_ any messages about how happy you are that he’s turning thirty two. And ANY requests you have of him, the answer is yes.”

The mess tent erupts into cheers, and Hawkeye is frog-marched to the head of the table, where a cake with “HAPPY B-DAY HAWK” haphazardly scrawled in icing awaits him. “Speech!” BJ yells over the crowd, earning him another withering look. Hawkeye quickly forces a smile on his face. 

“My birthday. I _guess_ it’s my birthday! I was just about to run out of this place like nobody’s business.” He pauses. “Okay, okay, come on. Say it and get it over with, this is embarrassing.”

“Happy birthday, Hawkeye!” the other members of the 4077th say in unison.

“Blow out your candles, Captain!” Klinger chimes in, motioning to the cake. “I worked really hard to fit all the letters on the cake, I hope you enjoy it!”

Hawkeye looks at the cake, and at the crowd of his friends, and then at BJ, who is smiling so brightly in his direction that it almost takes the breath out of him.

He sighs and blows out the candles.

_______

The first morning back at home in Maine, Hawkeye’s body jerks awake before the sun rises. He lies on his side, one knee curled up like in the fetal position, waiting for his breathing to steady and for the sharp panic to wane. 

Despite the warm softness of his childhood bed, it all feels strange, uncomfortable. His body has gotten used to the feeling of army cots; a real mattress is a foreign comfort, one he doesn’t recognize anymore. Something is missing.

He throws back the covers and sits at the end of his bed, staring out the window that faces toward the cove. As he waits for the morning light, he suddenly realizes that he’s never seen a sunrise with anyone he’s slept with. 

_______

“You know, it’s the little things you do together that make perfect relationships.”

Hawkeye looks up from his dime novel and rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go. _What_ , Frank?”

Frank has picked up a new habit of saying completely inane things out of the blue as an attempt at starting conversations with him and BJ. Hawkeye’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from—possibilities include the following: Margaret has started freezing Frank out and he’s now desperate for anyone to talk to, the sheer boredom is getting to him, or he’s finally reached a new level of crazy and decided he actually wants to be friends. None of these are ideal.

“I _said_ , it’s the little things you do together that make perfect—”

“I know what you _said_ , Frank, what the hell do you _mean_?”

Frank frowns. “The hobbies you pursue together, savings you build for your children—these are all things that make marriage a joy.”

“Uh huh.”

BJ snorts, pausing his sock darning. “How’s that working out for you, Frank?”

“You and Louise becoming a cliche yet?” Hawkeye adds.

The frown deepens. “God forbid I try to have an intelligent conversation with you two bozos.” 

“Oh, no, we get it, Frank,” Hawkeye says. “It’s the little things, like arguing over whose turn it is to take out the garbage it is, that keep marriage intact.”

“Things like ‘agreeing to disagree’ together,” BJ adds.

“PTA meetings you miss together—”

“Antiques you overpay for together—”

“Forgetting anniversaries together—”

“The events you fall asleep at, neighbors you irritate together—”

“The children you two destroy together—”

The air goes out of the Swamp like a deflated balloon. Frank suddenly stiffens, glaring at Hawkeye. “That was entirely uncalled for, Pierce.”

“What, Frank?”

Frank blinks hard, real hurt spreading across his face, and Hawkeye realizes that he’s hit a raw nerve with the kids. “How _dare_ you? You don’t have children and you don’t have a wife, so absolutely _nothing_ gives you the right to talk about mine.”

Before Hawkeye can get a word in, Frank storms out, slamming the door behind him. Bewildered at just what happened, he looks at BJ, who grimaces.

“That bad, huh.”  
  
“Well,” BJ says, “it certainly wasn’t great.”

He groans, and BJ shrugs half-heartedly. “You may have finally punched down a little too hard. _Not_ that he doesn’t deserve it, but you’re likely to save yourself a world of future pain if you tell him you’re sorry.”

Hawkeye catches up to Frank and apologizes before he runs and whines to Margaret, given Margaret being both enraged and in the right is the absolute last thing Hawkeye wants to be dealing with. Frank scowls without saying anything and stalks off, but at least he’s not heading in the direction of Margaret’s tent. 

When he heads back to the Swamp, crisis thankfully averted, he sees BJ through the open side of the tent, holding the framed photo of Peg and Erin he keeps by his cot, tracing his fingers along the edge of the frame.

_______

Hawkeye returns to say a proper good night to Henry—he’s really there to check on him again—after he gets off the phone with Lorraine. (Thank god for a quick end to the Nancy Sue Parker situation—caused by Radar-ian intervention rather than a divine one, but in this case just as effective.) Henry always looks tired, but never has he looked more exhausted and middle-aged than he does sitting in silence at his desk, staring at his framed photos of Lorraine and the kids.

“Buy you a drink, Henry?” Hawkeye offers, and Henry tosses him the key to the liquor cabinet without comment. 

They drink their scotch in quiet company, until Hawkeye breaks the long silence with, “You all right?”

“Oh, just peachy dandy.” Henry starts fidgeting with the doll that sits on his desk.

“Henry—”

“I will be,” Henry says quietly. “It’s all right.”

“Can I ask you something?” Hawkeye asks, and Henry waves his hand noncommittally. “You ever sorry you got married?”

Henry sighs. “Truth be told, I don’t know, Pierce. I’m always sorry, and I’m always grateful.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s no logic to it. Lorraine has always been the real thing, and I’ve been here all these months, but sometimes I _still_ wake up and wonder, ‘What has my wife done to the bedroom?’ And I know that when I go home, everything's going to be different and the same all at once. Only maybe slightly rearranged. _I’m_ slightly rearranged, and I don’t know if she is too.”

“Does that scare you?”

“Not in so many words,” Henry says. “I’m a little nervous she’s starting to drift away and scared neither of us have changed a bit, which has nothing to do with—all to do with—” He smiles wistfully. “Oh, what the hell. I don’t know what I’m saying. Sorry-grateful, regretful-happy, it’s all the same. I just miss her.

“And it took your little fling in the rumble seat of the time machine to see the light,” Hawkeye says. “Thank goodness for that, at least.”

“You know what, I’ll drink to that,” Henry says, lifting his glass, and Hawkeye does the same.

“To Nancy Sue Parker, Lorraine Blake, and other pretty women.” 

“Proof of heaven as you’re living.”

“How poetic, Henry,” Hawkeye laughs, surprised, and the corners of Henry’s mouth turn up.

“I have my moments.”

_______

The minute Trapper leaves, BJ Hunnicutt waltzes into his life with “ _Can I help?_ ” and turns Hawkeye’s world upside down with jokes about Rudyard Kipling and the winningest smile he’s ever seen. He’s pretty sure he falls in love right there and then, in a rinky-dink airport bar thousands of miles from home. By the time they make it back to the 4077th, drunkenly laughing so gleefully hard their faces hurt, Hawkeye knows he’s in ridiculously, dangerously deep. He tries to bury it, forget it, capture and contain it before it spreads through his veins like a wildfire and consumes him whole. It doesn’t work.

_______

“You’re so good, Hawk, so good to me,” Trapper pants as Hawkeye catches his breath. “So goddamn perfect.” 

He’s before Trapper on his knees in a hotel room in Tokyo, and the room is a little fuzzy in the corners of his vision, and he came at the same time that Trapper finished in his mouth, so the whole thing is a little overwhelming. Hawkeye leans his forehead against Trapper’s knee and breathes as the last waves of orgasmic aftershocks roll through his core.

“Hawk?” Trapper gently tilts his head up after a moment or two, stroking Hawkeye’s cheek with his thumb. “Come back to me, you okay?”

“Hmm?”

Trapper gives him a soft, if concerned, smile. “You looked a little far away for a minute.” 

“I’m all right, Trap.”

“Did you get yourself—”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye breathes, holding up his hand, wet with his own release.

Beyond his apparent oral fixation that Trapper ribs him about, there’s just something about being on his knees that he gets off on. It could be the intimacy of the act, the fact that he likes making Trapper feel good, or—at least, according to the feedback he’s received—because he’s pretty good at it; regardless of the reasoning behind it all, Hawkeye’s willingness and skill at giving blowjobs are something Trapper loves to take advantage of. (Though is it taking advantage if the act is done freely, almost desperately? Hawkeye doesn't actually care to know the answer.)

Trapper produces a damp washcloth from somewhere, Hawkeye doesn’t see where, and gently wipes Hawkeye’s face and hand clean. “Come here,” he says, lifting the sheets, and Hawkeye deliberately slows his movement as he climbs into bed; he’s afraid to rush and come off as too eager, which could scare Trapper into shutting down and retreating into himself.

They lie together naked under the covers, listening to the sounds of the Tokyo nightlife outside their window. Hawkeye rests his head on Trapper’s chest, feeling his heartbeat against his cheek. When he shifts position, Trapper avoids eye contact but lets him snuggle closer, languidly rubbing small circles across Hawkeye’s back.

Hawkeye doesn’t understand him. Trapper never wants to talk after sex, but he’ll still let Hawkeye kiss him even after he’s finished in his mouth. He’ll hold Hawkeye in his arms and stroke his hair as they drift off, but won’t make eye contact when they first wake up, usually opting to dress in silence. He doesn’t know what to say about it, or even if he _should_ say anything, but he’s afraid that if he does the wrong thing, it’ll scare Trapper off for good. 

Hawkeye has just taken to assuming he’ll lose his reason trying to figure Trapper John McIntyre out. (When it comes to matters of the heart, he always does.)

_______

BJ and Carlye make the same jokes. Not reminiscent of each other, not similar—the exact same jokes. It could drive a person crazy.

_______

Sunlight streams into the small Tokyo hotel room. They missed the sunrise by half an hour or so, but the early morning orange light reflects in Trapper’s curls as he sleeps. Hawkeye resists the urge to kiss his forehead, to twirl one of his locks of hair around his finger, to imagine that they’re back in the States, free from war, exhaustion, and fear.

He and Trapper have sex in the shower, getting their money’s worth of hot water. Trapper murmurs sweet nothings in his ear and kisses his neck as he wraps a hand around their cocks, stroking firmly. He doesn’t meet Hawkeye’s gaze until after they finish, tangling Hawkeye’s wet hair under clean fingers. It makes Hawkeye feel insane. 

“Come on, honey.” Trapper tilts his head toward the bathroom door before stepping out of the shower. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Hawkeye bites his tongue, wraps a towel around his waist, and follows him.

_______

“Welcome home, you crazy galoot!” Margaret beams at him, looking gorgeous with new auburn hair, and wraps him in a hug. 

Hawkeye hadn’t expected to be greeted with a party on his return to the 4077th, but BJ—resembling a cranberry with size fourteen feet—had been waiting to bring him into the mess tent, now transformed in the ultimate rosy and cheery and _red_ space of celebration. It was something he didn’t even know he needed.

“I did it!” Hawkeye shouts excitedly over the noise of the party. “I told them all! You should have seen me, I was terrific! But, listen, about your divorce, if there's anything I can do to help—”

He wants to tell Margaret how proud of her he is, how beautiful and radiant she looks with that weight lifted off her shoulders, but he’s being rushed to the next congratulator before he can get the words out. A drink is pressed into his hand by somebody, Potter, he thinks, and he finds himself being shuffled around the tent. It’s great, it’s fun, he’s having a legitimately wonderful time, but he can’t find BJ amongst the sea of red. 

“Hey, Radar, have you seen Beej, I—”

“What _would_ we do without you, Pierce?” Charles appears out of nowhere, slurring enthusiastically, and pats Hawkeye awkwardly on the shoulder. “ _How_ would we _ever_ get through?”

Hawkeye can’t help cracking up at that. “Get through what, Chuckles?”

“Who cares,” says Charles, and wanders off.

It takes him a while to wade through all the well-wishers, but he finally makes his way back to BJ by the punch bowl. “Ah, here’s the man of the hour!” BJ cheers, wrapping his arm around Hawkeye’s shoulder, and it’s so kind, so genuine, so _Beej_ that Hawkeye finds himself choking up.

He gets a hand on BJ’s shirt, gripping the front of it as they chat with the others, holding onto him as he would any other lifeline.

_______

Eventually they’re able to break away from the party for a few minutes, stealing back to the Swamp for a breather. “Our featured player ditching his own shindig?” BJ teases, handing Hawkeye a martini from the still.

“You just can’t bear that with a big party going on I talked you into coming home with me.”

“What party are you—oh, _that_ party.” BJ grins. “I’d completely forgotten about that party. But hey, maybe we can still make it.”

“This means a lot, you know. I mean it—thanks, Beej,” Hawkeye says softly, and BJ rubs his shoulder. 

“If we were back in the states, I’d be throwing you this party in a park, not this dust bowl.”

“Yeah?”

BJ lights up. “Imagine being in a tiny quiet pocket of a park in the middle of the busy, noisy city. A park that’s simple and pretty where we could have a proper celebration, a red picnic on a patch of green.”

Hawkeye chuckles and shakes his head. “You are some piece of work, Beej.”

“Here in Korea we’re like that park in the desert,” BJ says, suddenly tired. “Out of place.”

 _You are like that park_ , Hawkeye thinks. _A respite in the desert. A safe haven. A dream of what could be._

_______

“Oh, for pete’s sake, _why_ did Lorraine tack that on?”

The touching scene of Molly Blake’s fifth birthday party from Henry’s home movie quickly cuts to a silly scene of the Blakes horsing around with their neighbor friends, the Jaffes. Hawkeye, Trapper and Henry crack up at the skits the four act out, giggling at the stupid antics they pull. It’s funny to see Henry so relaxed; Hawkeye can’t remember a time that he’s ever seen him seemingly care- and anxiety-free.

Trapper wolf whistles at the neighbor’s wife dramatically, prompting laughter all around. “Boy, that Sylvia Jaffe is loaded for bear,” Henry grins, though Hawkeye notices he’s not even looking at her; he’s too busy looking right at Lorraine. 

And then, even though he’s still laughing, a sudden pang of jealousy shoots up Hawkeye’s spine. He just gets it. It’s not about the marriage, or the kids, or the neighbors, or the house in suburbia. He wants to be looked at the way that Henry looks at a home movie of his wife, the way Henry and Lorraine look at each other on the tape; like they can look into each others’ eyes and know they see the sunrise the same way. It makes him ache down to his bones.

“You know,” Henry says, chuckling and wiping his eyes once the film ends, “it’s awful hard to be married, but Jesus Christ, is it fun.”

_______

It’s only when Carlye points out to Hawkeye that he’s literally proposed himself into a corner that he begins to consider the possibility that he’s _maybe_ trying a little too hard. It still isn’t enough to stop the words from desperately pouring out of his mouth.

“Listen, why shouldn’t we? Why couldn’t we?”

“Hawkeye—”

“I promise, you won’t have to give anything up, things can stay like they are now.”

Carlye laughs. She’s not doing it to be cruel, he knows that, but it hurts in a way that’s worse if she’d been trying to needle at him, poking at the soft parts between his ribs. “And what do we have now? Sneaking around behind our bunkmates’ backs for a few stolen kisses? Flirting our way through meatball surgery? Is that the marriage you imagine?”

“I could build us a picket fence, but we’re not allowed to paint anything white—air raid regulations.”

“Hawk, I’m asking you to give me a real answer— _why_ are you asking now?”

He takes a deep breath. “There was a time when I couldn't ask you because—” _because he wasn’t ready. Because permanency scares him. Because while that type of commitment is terrifying, it’s also the only thing that matters, and he was afraid he couldn’t give her everything she deserves_ —“but that was then, this is now! We’re two different people, I know I certainly am, and I think I can handle it now.”

“Hawkeye, _listen_ to yourself.”

“I’m ready now,” Hawkeye says, and it comes out equal parts petulant and defeated. 

Carlye sighs. It’s a miserable sound. 

“Taking care of people is always going to be the most important single thing in your life, I know that’s why you became a doctor. But I don’t need you to take care of me anymore.”

“But who will I take care of?” Hawkeye asks, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Well.” Carlye quirks a smile. “Whoever’s crazy enough to come along for the ride with you.”

“And I take it you don’t want to ride shotgun anymore.”

“It was never shotgun, it was always backseat—it _was_ , Hawk, let’s not kid ourselves,” she says firmly, holding up her hand when he opens his mouth to argue back. “I like it up front, even better when I’m behind the wheel. And I think you’ve already got somebody else with you on this wild journey.”

“What? Who?” Hawkeye asks, suddenly baffled. They could always pick up on the nuances in each others’ sentences, but this has certainly thrown him. 

“Are you kidding?” Carlye sounds equally as incredulous, which confuses him further. “Either you’re being particularly coy to be kind, or you truly don’t realize what I’m talking about yet, but either way I think you’ll thank me later.” 

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“For your sake, I hope you do.”

They breathe in quiet stillness, neither wanting to be the first to move.

“I take it there’s no changing your mind. About the transfer,” Hawkeye eventually says, and Carlye shakes her head.

“I need distance,” she says, “otherwise neither of us will be free.”

“Okay,” Hawkeye says simply. “Okay. If that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

They embrace, and Hawkeye cradles her head in his hands, stroking her hair, and Carlye leaves the tent without looking at him. He opens his mouth to call out after her, but doesn’t.

_______

_Hawkeye dreams of a bedroom with a king-sized mattress and someone holding him in it._

_He doesn’t recognize where they are; it doesn’t look like the apartment in Boston he shared with Carlye or his childhood bedroom at home, nor does it resemble any of the hotel rooms he’s stayed in on R &R. But it doesn’t really matter where it is. In this world, his back isn’t killing him for once, and there are no sounds of incoming choppers, and someone holds him, soft as Carlye, skinny and blue-eyed as BJ. Or Francis. _

_He looks right at the person and can’t tell who it is. It’s like an optical illusion where he sees all the pictures at once. That minor problem aside, whoever it is is very good at stroking his hair and murmuring words that sound comforting (he can’t make out what’s actually being said)._

_He wishes he could figure out who it is, cool as Tommy, strong and touching as Margaret. Or Trapper._

_Maybe it’s Trapper, still ever present months after his departure. Maybe Hawkeye waited too long to tell him the truth, but if that’s true, Trapper did the same thing._

_He sits up from the warmth of the embrace and stares at the figure. “Who are you?” Hawkeye asks._

_The figure stares right back. Not frightening or indifferent, but difficult to recognize._

_“I’m ready now,” Hawkeye continues, the words spilling suddenly and in a rush. He’s not quite sure what they even mean. “I don’t think I was before, but I’m ready now.”_

_At that, the figure leans in and kisses him, and warmth spreads across Hawkeye’s skin like a blush. He melts into it, reveling in the feeling of smooth skin under his fingers and the nearly-overwhelming feeling of comfort that is so easy, and so addicting. He needs this. Whoever this is, he needs them._

_He breaks the kiss and whispers against the figure’s lips, “I'll find you if I can. I’ll do anything to find you.”_

_The figure pulls back and laughs, richly and easily. “I’m right here, Hawkeye.”_

_It’s BJ—blue-eyed, warm, sweet, loving BJ. It could be no one else._

_“Beej,” Hawkeye says softly, and BJ smiles at him with so much tenderness that it makes Hawkeye’s chest ache._

_“I have to go,” BJ says. “But I’ll be back. You’ll find me. You always do.” Then he disappears._

_Hawkeye cries out to stop him, but his tongue is a tangled knot in his mouth. He doesn't know if he’s trying to shout “Hurry!” or “Wait for me!”_


	2. when you've got friends like mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> loneliness, pining, and hawkeye and margaret friendship is magic content abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, many MANY thanks to the amazing and fantastic [@gayfranzkafka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayfranzkafka/) for beta reading. playlist (with updates!) can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3YOboXE1GHSehon59vbDkT?si=WTvQM6Y9R2O2px5Hpjfccw) if you want to listen along.

“Remind me when I wake up to give you a kiss,” BJ mumbles before rolling over, and Hawkeye feels his stomach drop. 

“Go back to sleep,” he manages to whisper back. “You’re dreaming.”

He sits in the silence of the Swamp for an hour, staring at his half-finished will. He’d struggled at Battalion Aid with what to leave BJ, overwhelmed with trying to put down everything he feels about him into a few short lines in his final will and testament. How do you tell somebody that you love them so much that you’d crawl through minefields for them? You can’t leave them that sentiment after you die. And perhaps the more pressing, difficult question is, how do you ask if they’d accept that love? Is the terrifying act of being open and honest with someone you’re in love with worth the risk of rejection?

A very dangerous thought pops into Hawkeye’s head. It holds the power to destroy everything that he’s built with BJ, but if he doesn’t ask it of BJ right now, he knows he’ll never be able to bring it up again.

He gently shakes BJ’s shoulder and wakes him up. “Beej. Beej.”

“Hawk,” BJ mumbles, still half-asleep. He finds Hawkeye’s hand in the dark and squeezes it. “You’re back safe. Glad you’re okay.”

“Beej, I need to ask you something.”

“You all right?”

“Did you ever have a homosexual experience?” It comes out like a gasp, and underneath the sleepiness, BJ actually looks surprised. 

“Did I ever have a what?”

“I don’t mean as a kid. I mean, since you've been an adult. Have you ever had a homosexual experience?”

BJ sits up and looks at him, his face framed by moonlight. “Hawk, I am _delighted_ you’re back safe and sound; all the while you were gone, I was here thinking you were…” He swallows. “I’m just glad you’re back. But you _really_ woke me up in the middle of the night to ask me if I’ve ever had a homosexual experience?”

Hawkeye shrugs, searching for the right words, but before any come, BJ shakes his head and says, “Yes, actually, I have.”

Something tightens in Hawkeye’s chest. “But you’re not gay, are you?”

BJ smiles noncommittally; in the dim light, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you?”

Hawkeye hesitates. ( _kinda? yes, and? mostly?_ ) “Well, I’ve done it more than once.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Oh, I think sometimes you meet somebody and you just love the crap out of them. You know?”

BJ nods. “I’m sure that’s true.”

“And—and sometimes you just want to manifest that love, that’s all.”

“I understand, absolutely.”

“I think that sometimes you can even know someone for—oh, a long, long time and then suddenly, out of nowhere, you just want to have them—I mean, even an old friend. You just, all of a sudden, desire that intimacy, that—closeness,” he concludes with a pathetic wave of his hand, gesturing at nothing. 

They sit and stare at each other in the darkness, and Hawkeye has a sudden worry that his heart is about to tear out of his chest and fall pathetically into BJ’s lap. He wants to ask, _do you think you and I could ever have something like that_? He won’t. He can’t. No matter how desperately he wants it, he can’t do that to Peg. Instead of saying anything, he continues to stare at BJ, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. 

“Hawkeye—” BJ starts, but he’s immediately cut off by Radar’s sudden yell of “ _choppers_ ” from across the compound. Hawkeye feels like he is going to pass away on the spot.

“ _Okay, guys and gals, break out the new dance cards, the next round has just begun,_ ” comes over the speakers, and he and BJ hurry to meet the ambulances in the compound, letting the intense implications of their conversation dissipate into the night. Neither bring the topic up again. 

_______

  
Trapper looks beautiful in sunlight. 

Hawkeye thinks he’s gorgeous all the time, of course, but most of their time is spent moving from the OR to the mess tent, to the supply tent, to the showers, to post-op, and back through the cycle again. It’s rare that he actually gets the chance to see the way Trapper’s hair takes on the golden light, the way his muscles move through the water while they swim in the river, the way his freckles pool on his shoulders when his skin is exposed to the sun.

They lie naked on towels by the riverbank past the minefield, warm enough to bask in the afternoon sun after skinny dipping. (It’s tempting to pull Trapper close and just sleep together, but the risk of being stumbled upon, however unlikely it is this far from both the village and the camp, is enough to restrict them to activities that require consciousness.) These moments of intimacy are few and far between, but Hawkeye relishes any time Trapper actually opens up to him; today he’s said more about missing home than Hawkeye thinks he’s heard him mention in ten months.

“I didn’t hate it, I just never wanted to live there permanently,” Hawkeye says when Trapper asks him how he feels about Boston. “Too lonely, too isolating—Boston; the city of strangers.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Trapper shrugs. “You can find the right people if you know where to look.”

“And where do you look?” 

Trapper stiffens a little, shifting uncomfortably, and Hawkeye feels a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t meant it like _that_ (okay, _fine_ , maybe a little), but the last thing he wants is to make Trapper feel bad.

He knows about the arrangement Trapper and Louise have, how they were best friends from junior high before they started dating and got married, how they both realized early on in their marriage that they both liked batting for the other team (though Trapper is more of a switch hitter than Louise). He knows how and why they do what they do, and how they sleep in separate bedrooms, and seem—well, as happy as they can be in a situation like that. But that was all information Trapper told him of his own free will (quietly, in the dead of night, when Frank wasn’t around). Usually, Hawkeye knows better than to ask questions he’s not sure about the answer to. 

“Never mind, we don’t have to talk about it, Trap.”

“It’s okay—”

“I know you don’t like talking about—”

“But you asked anyway,” Trapper says tightly, though not unkindly. “So. At parties through the friends-of-friends. At the Y. Through Louise’s girlfriends who have equally bent husbands. It’s always a lot of dancing around—‘Do I pick you up, do I meet you there?’ Do we get a drink before or after? Hotel or motel or apartment? Do you pitch or catch?” He gives Hawkeye a look of mild confusion. “When you’ve been with—you’ve haven’t really done it like—”

“Not like that,” Hawkeye says. Which is true; Tommy had been his first—they had learned how to round the bases, so to speak, on many stolen afternoons in Hawkeye’s treehouse—and it had felt natural, intuitive. In between him and Trapper, there hadn’t been many men. (Nor had there really been _that_ many women; he’d been with a few nice girls before and after Carlye, but he wasn’t nearly as prolific as his reputation made him out to be. Not that he really minded or felt the need to correct anybody about it.)

“Oh,” says Trapper. “Well. Yeah. That’s about what it’s like.”

“That sounds extraordinarily lonely.” 

“Is loneliness worse than nothing?” Trapper asks, and Hawkeye doesn’t say anything. 

They stare at the river, and Hawkeye feels like crying, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Hey,” Trapper eventually says, gently brushing Hawkeye’s knee with the tips of his fingers. “You all right?”

Hawkeye despises that question. What the hell is “all right” in a war zone? What the hell is “all right” when he wants more than he knows Trapper can give? But Trapper’s trying. A little. And he’s looking at Hawkeye so openly and honestly that to joke would break the spell of this stolen, gentle respite from it all.

Rather than saying anything, Hawkeye rolls over and positions himself on top of Trapper, his thigh between Hawkeye’s legs, and leans to kiss him, refusing to answer the question they both know the answer to. 

_______

Of all the bad days Hawkeye has had in Korea, this has to be one of the worst of them all. Between the jeep breaking down, the wooden shard in his leg, shells exploding every five seconds, and Margaret’s unusually bad mood, it’s not shaping up to make Hawkeye’s personal highlight reel of the war. 

He knows that a significant portion of Margaret’s all-day snippiness has stemmed from her latest correspondence with Lieutenant Colonel Donald Penobscot (of West Point), but she refuses to tell Hawkeye what's in the letter all day. It’s only once they’re in the relative safety of the abandoned hut that Margaret reveals its contents. Lieutenant Colonel Donald Penobscot (of West Point) has been cheating on her with some woman named Doreen, and he screwed up and put the wrong letters in the wrong envelopes. It’s a fucked up way to find out about it all. 

“I’m so sorry, Margaret,” he says softly. “You must really hurt.”

“You know what it feels like to give your trust to somebody? To live just for a glimpse of their handwriting in the mail?” (Hawkeye thinks briefly, fleetingly, of Trapper.) Margaret continues, “He writes of the war and self-loading, semi-automatic submachine guns. He sweetly says he misses me, and then I get this letter meant for another woman.” She laughs bitterly. “I’ve tried damned hard to make this marriage work, only to learn I mean _nothing_ to him. Absolutely _nothing_. And _this_ is how I had to find out.”

“I think that love’s a dirty business,” Hawkeye says, pouring more scotch into Margaret’s cup. 

“So do I.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s insane.”

“You know, so are we,” Hawkeye says, and Margaret says nothing. 

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“Let’s get drunk,” he says, searching for an air of finality, and she offers no argument. 

They quickly fall onto the vulnerable side of tipsy, the space before the messy oversharing that comes with true drunkenness; conscious enough to know what thoughts they’re sharing, but just relaxed enough to have the guts to say them. When Hawkeye lets a certain question cross his lips, he knows what he’s asking, but a small part of him is still a little surprised to hear himself say it aloud. 

“When are you and I gonna make it?”

Unsurprisingly, Margaret rolls her eyes, opting to help herself to more scotch. “I _beg_ your pardon, Captain.”

“I’m not kidding, Margaret, when are we gonna make it?”

She pauses and looks at him carefully, searching his face as if it will reveal some hint at the question’s deeper meaning. “You’re really not joking, are you.”

“I’ve serioused up, scout’s honor.”

Margaret remains quiet for a long time, and then starts fidgeting with the cup, refusing to meet Hawkeye’s gaze. “I want your word that what I am about to say will never, _ever_ come out of your mouth in conversation with anyone else, is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Hawkeye says, holding up three fingers.

“You swear it?”

“ _Margaret—_ ”

She takes a deep breath. “I _happen_ to be one of those types of women that don’t like men,” Margaret says very quickly, and finishes the remaining contents of her cup in one go. 

Hawkeye thinks of whatever the hell was going on between Margaret and Frank, and her excessive, performative bragging about Donald Penobscott and his physique, and her civilian boxer shorts, and how she lights up like no other whenever she has the spare five minutes to grab coffee with Captain Whitfield, and the pieces start to fall into place. 

“Well, isn’t that funny, _I_ like men twice as much as you’re supposed to,” Hawkeye says. He may well regret telling her this in the morning, but Margaret hasn’t opened up with him to this extent before, and he’s gripped with a need to be as honest with her as she’s been with him. To tell her he hears her and understands and knows if not her exact situation, at least the need to be seen as she is. “What a pair we are, narrative foils ‘til the end.”

“Don’t you make fun of me,” Margaret says sharply, which is not the reaction Hawkeye was expecting. “This is what I get for believing I could trust you, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“What? Margaret, I promise I’m not, I’m not.” He turns to face her, wincing at the pain in his thigh. “I wouldn’t do that to you, not about that.”

Margaret scowls. “How am I supposed to believe you?”

“You think I’d risk you getting me section eighted for a _gag_?”

“You told that _awful_ psychologist you were in love with Frank Burns just to try and get some R&R in Tokyo!”

“I couldn’t have told the truth and said I was in love with _Trapper_ ,” Hawkeye argues back; he doesn’t actually realize the implications of what he’s said until the surprise registers on Margaret’s face. He immediately groans.

“You were in love with McIntyre?” Margaret asks.

“Unfortunately,” Hawkeye says, abandoning any sense of self-preservation he has left. “And now I’m going through it all over again with Beej, but worse. So given my own ongoing, _constant_ suffering, believe me when I say I’m not making fun of you.”

“You’re extremely melodramatic,” Margaret says, though there’s no malice in her tone.

“Yeah, well, some guys have got it.”

They look at each other, and Margaret sighs. “Hawkeye, what are we going to do with ourselves?”

“That’s the $6400 question, isn’t it?” He shrugs. “Are you gonna leave him?”

“I don’t know yet.” 

“I think you should run off with the other woman, that would really stick it to him. Unless you have a Doreen of your own.” At that, Margaret’s cheeks redden a little, and Hawkeye has a feeling he’s right about her having a crush on a certain captain. He nudges her with his uninjured leg. “Come on, Margaret, who’s the object of your affection changing your complexion from white to rosy red?”

“Never you mind.”

“It’s Helen Whitfield, isn’t it?”

Margaret turns bright pink, but nods her head. “I thought with Donald it could have been a fresh start, though it ended up being more a confirmation of things I didn’t want to admit about an old college friend.”

“Is she interested in giving you a German haircut?” Hawkeye teases, wiggling his eyebrows, and Margaret shoves him.

“ _Stop_ it, and you better not tell _anyone_ —”

“I’m not _gonna_!”

“ _Especially_ not Hunnicutt!”

“Well, _you_ can’t tell him anything either!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!” 

Margaret lets herself giggle a little, and Hawkeye can’t help but laugh with her. It’s beyond surreal, sitting and chatting about their homosexual crushes on their friends while the war explodes outside, but never has Hawkeye been more grateful for a moment of levity.

“Oh, come here, Margaret. Watch the leg, though.” Margaret settles next to him, and he slings an arm around her shoulders. 

“You know, you’re a good egg, Major Houlihan,” Hawkeye says. Margaret takes his hand in hers and squeezes it gently.

“You’re not half bad yourself, Captain Pierce. Now hand over the rest of the scotch.”

Hawkeye splits the rest of the scotch between them and holds up the bottle in a toast. “What shall we drink to? To being in love with our best friends? To Japanese scotch? To broken down Jeeps?” 

“Let’s keep it simple and just say here’s to us.”

“Oh, Margaret,” Hawkeye says in an affected tone, who _ever_ is like _us_?”

Margaret clinks her cup against the bottle. “Damn few.”

_______

“You miss him.”

Hawkeye snaps out of his fog as his dad sets a mug of coffee in front of him on the kitchen table. (He’s still not sleeping.)

“Which him?” 

“Oh, I think you miss all of them, in their own way,” Dad says. “But especially the one in San Francisco.”

Hawkeye shrugs, rubbing his eyes listlessly. (He misses BJ so much his chest constantly hurts, misses him so much that to say it out loud would open a dam of emotion he’s not sure he could close again.)

“Have you called him?”

“Not yet.”

“You _gonna_ call him?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Hawkeye says warningly, though there’s no bite to it (it’s driven by the annoyance that always comes when a parent not-so-subtly attempts to noodge their child into doing something they already _know_ they need to do, so quit _hounding_ them about it—).

“I know, I know,” Dad says in pseudo-resignation, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. “I’m just _saying_.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t like to see you lonely, Ben. You haven’t got one good reason for it.”

“I’m _not_ lonely,” Hawkeye argues, the lie twisting in his core. (He’s terribly lonely and he hates how much it eats away at him, and he’s trying to deal with it on top of the everything else going on in his brain, but it’s just—hard. It’s goddamn hard.) “I’m not lonely, I’m _not_ , it’s just—I just miss my friends, that’s all.”

“I’m done instigating,” Dad says. He softly ruffles Hawkeye’s hair, a gesture of affection that he’s done since before Hawkeye can remember. “You want eggs and bacon or a Pierce special?” 

He has no appetite, hasn’t had much of one in weeks, but it never stops his dad from trying. His dad never stops trying with anything. Hawkeye manages to smile. 

“Pierce special, since you’re offering. Thanks, Dad.” 

_______

 _You were right, Hawk,_ Trapper writes him months later. _I got home and found it really is a city of strangers._

_______

The night Helen Whitfield is transported out of the 4077th, Hawkeye sits with Margaret in her tent and holds her hand as she cries. 

BJ had gotten to know Helen better than he had, but Hawkeye had liked her—he’d thought her a diligent nurse, funny, kind-hearted, a good match for Margaret. He hadn’t known how bad things had gotten with her drinking. The worst part of it is how hard Margaret is trying to keep it together. Hawkeye can count on one hand the number of times Margaret’s broken down since they’ve been in Korea, but this is the roughest he’s seen her; it hurts to watch her try to stop herself from fully bursting into sobs as Hawkeye attempts to be as good an anchor as he can.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Margaret says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I just wish I had known—I _should_ _have_ known better.”

“Nobody knew,” Hawkeye says, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “You can’t blame yourself—there’s nothing and nobody to blame. Things got rough, but now Helen’s gonna get the help she needs.”

“I know. I know,” Margaret says. “I’m not upset that Klinger did what he did, he was just trying to help, and I’m not upset with Helen, I just—” She tries to take a few deep breaths. “Is this how you felt when McIntyre left?”

That takes him a little aback. “Uh—”

He’s thankfully saved from having to unpack all of that with, “You know what the final straw with Jack Scully was?” 

Hawkeye shakes his head. 

“An omelet. He wanted me to make two omelets, one for me and one for him. I told him that cooking eggs and playing house would make for a fine afternoon, but that I wanted more out of my life than an afternoon. And now,” Margaret says through a sob, “I’m so sick of it all, Hawkeye. I don’t want to keep running around like I’m having a life when I’m really not. When all I really want is to make her eggs, and imagine a home with her, just for a little while. To take care of her even just for an afternoon.”

“You’ll get to do all of that,” Hawkeye says, putting his arms around her, and he feels Margaret fully let herself cry. “I know you will.” 

He holds her for a long time, until Margaret’s breathing steadies and she pulls back from the embrace, taking Hawkeye’s proffered handkerchief.

“Thank you for staying with me,” she says, wiping away the last of her tears. “It’s nice to not feel so alone. And if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it, but I’m forced to admit that you are one of my favorite officers in the U.S. Army.”

“I’ll keep your secret,” Hawkeye says, feeling a smile spread across his face.

Margaret lets herself relax a little. “I know you always will.” 

Like he’s done for her a few times before, Margaret leans in and kisses him on the cheek, a shared gesture that expresses everything they both know doesn't need to be put into words.

_______

The latest picture Radar is able to finagle from the Marines is _Anchors Aweigh_ , a silly Frank Sinatra-Gene Kelly movie about sailors running around Hollywood who seem to be more in love with each other than their respective girls. BJ’s been in a weird mood all day, seemingly annoyed at everyone and everything, and Hawkeye had hoped the film would snap him out of it. As usual, there’s some SNAFU with the film projector and the movie goes out midway through, which is met with loud noises of complaint directed at Klinger.

“Don't blame Klinger,” Hawkeye yells over the din. “It’s an army projector, it's supposed to break down every five minutes.”

“Like the peace talks,” BJ frowns, fidgeting with his popcorn. 

Hawkeye turns to him. “All right, you’ve been in a mood all day, what’s up.”

“It’s nothing. I never liked this movie anyways,” BJ mutters. 

Hawkeye quirks an eyebrow. (A classic Hunnicutt non-answer, but he opts to just go with this explanation.) “I take it you’re not a Gene Kelly fan.”

“I certainly don’t care for that corny song.” 

“ _Well_ , you just don’t know Susie like I know Susie,” Hawkeye deadpans, and BJ relents with a half-smile, staring straight ahead. 

“I know Susie plenty well, it’s ‘I Fall In Love Too Easily’ that I’d wish I’d never met.”

Hawkeye looks at him carefully, but there’s something behind BJ’s eyes that he can’t quite decipher. “I don’t mind it. Maybe it’s because I fall in love too easily.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, once.”

“How’d that end up?” BJ asks. 

Hawkeye opens his mouth to reply—he’s tempted to answer with either _it actually hasn’t ended yet_ or _you tell me_ , both equally likely responses—but Klinger miraculously gets the projector working again, and they can’t hear anything over the cheers that fill the tent.

_______

The war drags on. Hawkeye dreams but does not sleep. 

_______

It’s Valentine’s Day, and after the worst holiday mixer he thinks he’s ever attended, Hawkeye finds himself pacing around the camp in sheer annoyance. 

The party itself hadn’t _really_ been that bad; Radar had of course made great decorations, the snacks provided by Igor and the K.P. team were surprisingly edible, and it was overall a fine, normal celebration. But something about the whole thing put him in a weird mood. Maybe it was because BJ wasn’t there with him, opting to take an extra shift in post-op as, quote, “a distraction from it all”. It’s not like Hawkeye was planning to spill some crazed love confession, but something about the whole day, about not being able to say anything to anybody about it all, is making him feel overwhelmed.

He finds himself knocking on Margaret’s door, hoping that she’s awake and willing to spend a little time with him. If anybody could get where he’s coming from, it’s her.

“Who is it?” Margaret’s voice sounds from inside.

“Avon calling.”

He can hear Margaret roll her eyes. “What do you want, Pierce?”

“Your undying love and affection, but I’ll settle for a game of Scrabble.”

“Oh, go away.”

“Margaret, the night is young, the sky is clear, and I would _really_ love some company.”

“Stop with the Cole Porter and go back to the party or the Swamp.”

“Margaret, _please_?” 

There’s a brief pause and Margaret opens her door in her robe, hair in curlers. “ _Please_? Are you all right?”

The sudden shift in tone makes him want to laugh, but he answers her honestly, “I really could go for a round of double-solitaire Scrabble.”

Margaret’s expression softens. “Fine. You can come in.”

He breezes in and sits on Margaret’s cot without asking, which earns him a mildly dirty look. “Would you like a nightcap?”

“How could I refuse you?”

“All I have is brandy,” Margaret says, digging through her footlocker. “And cheap brandy at that.”

“I’m not Chuckles, don’t worry about impressing me.” 

“ _He_ was the one who gave it to me in the first place,” she grumbles. “Something from a patient that he regifted; he said it had no chance of offending the palate of someone like _me_. ”

“This is so ungallant of me,” Hawkeye says, watching her pour the brandy. “Don’t we usually do this the other way around?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Usually we’re drinking _gin_ while _you’re_ kvetching in _my_ tent.”

Margaret pinches the bridge of her nose. “Will you just let me be _nice_ to you? You’re so hard on yourself, you never let anybody take care of you. I’m a _nurse_. Let me do my job.”

“Okay, Major Baby,” Hawkeye says, settling back into the pillows. Margaret makes a noise of disdain and hands him the glass.

“You’re insufferable.”

“What can I say, you’re seeing the real me!”

They break out the Scrabble board, though neither of them are really interested in playing to win. Double solitaire-Scrabble had been Hawkeye’s way of comforting Margaret post-break up with Scully. That night they’d sat and drank and leaned on each other for support, and while the details of gameplay never mattered, there was a clear objective; if you spell L-O-V-E, you win the game. 

“So he goes back to his rosy marriage and I’m stuck with deep purple dreams?” Hawkeye says at some point during gameplay, fidgeting with his tiles. “Is this my Valentine’s curse, consistently falling for married men?”

“Have you considered _talking to Hunnicutt_?” Margaret posits unsympathetically, playing H and A-R around an E tile. 

“What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, Beej, I think I’ve been in love with you since the second we met and I’m afraid to spill the beans, potentially ruining everything we already have as friends?’”

“I just think that you won’t _know_ unless you _talk_ to him about it,” she says. Sometimes the way Margaret says things makes Hawkeye think she knows more than she actually lets on, but he doesn’t push. 

Hawkeye shrugs and adds to the bottom of the row of tiles, forming H-E-A-R-T and L-O-S-T. It’s a little too on the nose for how he’s feeling. 

“Hawkeye,” Margaret says softly, connecting the T tile with R and Y. “I hate seeing you so lonely.” It hits him in the center of his chest like Margaret’s punched him. 

“Him, too,” she says, tilting her head in the direction of the Swamp. “I’ve spent so much of my life being lonely in crowds that I can see it more easily in others now, and you both are going to drown if you don’t do something about it.”

“How do you deal with it?” Hawkeye asks.

“I have to believe that something good can come of this place, and I focus on that—making something more of this otherwise awful situation.”

“Like a relationship with a certain stateside captain?”

The corners of her mouth turn up. “Not just that. But knowing that our being here led to Helen getting help _is_ something good.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Better. Stateside treatment back in Dale City is doing her a world of good, she's making significant progress.”

“Are you going to go visit her once it’s all over?” 

Margaret nods, prompting a grin from Hawkeye as he plays S-T-A above the Y. “Well, they do say Virginia is for lovers.”

“Is that what they say?”

“It’s what _I_ say—from my mouth to God’s ears and all that.”

Margaret raises an eyebrow. “What do they say about Mill Valley and Crabapple Cove?”

“That I’m not sure about yet,” Hawkeye says. “But if it doesn’t work out, at least you and I can always get married.”

“Very funny.”

“I mean it, we can have nuptial twin beds like on TV.”

“I’ll settle for the daybed in your sunroom when I come to visit.”

“It’s a little small for two,” Hawkeye considers, “but I think you and Helen could squeeze.”

Margaret gives him a small smile, and adds an S to the end of H-E-A-R-T. “I think that would be lovely.”

_______

Hawkeye has been home for two months. He’s still not sleeping, but he’s constantly dreaming. Dreaming of a world where he sneaks out of bed before dawn while BJ is still asleep to get Pierce specials and coffee waiting on the kitchen table. Dreaming of a world where BJ stumbles downstairs and kisses his neck while Hawkeye scrambles eggs in their small kitchen. Dreaming of a world where he knits BJ sweaters by the fireplace, and does the crossword with him on Sunday mornings, and pushes Erin on the swings at the park, and crawls into bed with him at the end of the day and kisses him goodnight. Dreaming for his dream to turn out to be more than a dream.

_______

Margaret writes him constantly; letters arrive in Crabapple Cove like clockwork every Friday with other updates scattered throughout the week. Replying to letters regularly is a habit Sidney suggested he get back into. It gives Hawkeye a sense of control over something when he feels like he’s wandering; it’s an action to repeat, a response to anticipate, a small but significant way of returning to relative normal. He and BJ correspond fairly regularly, and he’s in touch with the other members of the 4077th (and Sidney, they’ve talked on the phone a few times, too), but Margaret is the most consistent in terms of frequency.

She sends pages and pages about her new job in Virginia at a children’s hospital, about her parents’ divorce being finalized, about Helen’s progress with her recovery, about how much she misses him, and how she hopes he’s not so lonely. He writes back with descriptions of New England summer, suggestions of knitting projects, and bad jokes, and avoids talking about how lost he feels.

 _I called BJ the other day_ , Margaret writes in late September. _We talked about how terribly we both miss you. You should call him._ Writing BJ is one thing; talking to him on the phone, hearing his voice again, opening the internal floodgates holding back everything he feels is another.

One Friday afternoon, Hawkeye receives a smaller-than-usual envelope addressed to him from Margaret. When he opens the envelope, the contents included are a small piece of paper and the top two photos of a photobooth strip that’s been torn in half. In the first photo, Margaret and Helen wave cheerfully at the camera; in the second, Helen grins brightly as Margaret laughs, presumably at something Helen said. Hawkeye wonders if they were able to steal a kiss or two in the privacy of the photobooth. (He hopes so.)

He tapes the photostrip to the fridge, next to a newspaper clipping about Radar’s farm, a snapshot of Erin playing at the beach, and a postcard Klinger and Soon-Li sent from Seoul. The note Margaret included in the envelope is short and sweet, but it hits him hard.

 _To Hawkeye, with love.  
_ _Don’t stop now. Keep going._

_______

He calls BJ in the middle of the night. One in the morning east coast time is far too late for a social call, but something in his chest is screaming at him to talk to BJ, to just listen to the cadence of his voice, to do anything to alleviate the overwhelming feeling of being alone.

BJ picks up the phone on the fifth ring. 

“Hello?”

Hawkeye’s heart is immediately in his throat. “Hi, Beej.”

“Hawkeye!” Hearing BJ’s voice from thousands of miles away makes Hawkeye want to cry, or immediately confess his love, or get blind drunk, he’s not sure which. “Hawk, it’s so good to hear you, how are you?”

Before he realizes what he’s saying, he blurts out, “BJ, did you know we never saw the sunrise together?”

These is a horrible, nervewracking pause, and it’s to the point where Hawkeye is about to hang up when BJ finally says, as gentle as ever, “Hawkeye, it’s really late, are you okay?”

Who the hell knows anymore. He’s lovesick, and not sleeping, and even though he’s trying to manage it like Margaret said, he’s so, _so_ lonely. He’s not under the delusion that being with BJ would magically fix everything that’s wrong, but it sure wouldn’t hurt to just _see_ him again.

“It’s your fault I’m calling, I think you’ve permanently ruined my sleep,” Hawkeye manages to say, rubbing his eyes. “Though I’m sorry if I woke you or the other two thirds of your household.”

“They’re, uh—” BJ gives a strange laugh. “Well. You didn’t, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Hawkeye says, a little thrown by the shift in tone, but embarrassingly grateful to hear BJ. “God, it’s amazing to hear your voice, I just—how _are_ you, what’s new?”

“You want the big news or small news?”

“I want it all,” Hawkeye says, and could kick himself for how pathetic he sounds. Luckily BJ doesn’t seem to notice and chuckles softly in response. 

“O-kay, let’s see. Small news is Erin is doing great, she loves the sweater you made her and never want to take it off. That shade of blue is now her favorite color.”

BJ tells Hawkeye about the clinic he’s working at, how Erin seems to be growing leaps and bounds every day, scores of details about everyday life in California. It sounds like he’s dancing around whatever the big news is, so after half an hour of what eventually feels like minutiae, Hawkeye just asks—

“So what was the big news? Don’t keep a man suspended, it’s bad form.”

“Oh yeah, the big news. Well.” There’s an odd stretch of silence. “Peg and I are getting divorced.”

“You’re splitting up?” Hawkeye says, voice hushed. He sinks to the floor and sits against the wall under the phone, the way he used to sit when talking to Tommy on the phone in high school. “Beej, why, what happened?”

Another pause. “Is your operator known to listen in?”

“Not on this line, Gertrude got over that bad little habit years ago when Dad took out her tonsils for free.”

“Okay. Okay.” He hears BJ take a deep breath. “Peg is currently living with a… friend.”  
  
“A friend?”

“...a friend named Gena. Short for Virginia. She’s an interior decorator, also recently divorced. She’s very nice.”

Whatever Hawkeye was expecting, hearing that Peg Hunnicutt was exchanging violets with a San Francisco divorcée was not it. “Gloryosky. I mean, good for her, but—wow, Beej.”

“It’s been a long time coming, I mean, I—” BJ’s nervous laughter is going to put Hawkeye in an early grave. “I’ve always known which way Peg swung, and we knew when it was time for one of us to move out.”

“Really?”

“Our marriage had a bit of a… um.” There’s a stretch of silence again. “A lavender tinge on both sides. If you get my meaning.”

Hawkeye is going to have an aneurysm on the kitchen floor. (If he had a dollar for each time he fell head over heels for his male best friend and found out that said best friend was in a lavender marriage, he’d have two dollars. Which isn’t a lot, but fucking insane that it’s happened twice.)

“Beej, I never knew.” He feels himself laughing before he actually hears it, hoping he doesn’t sound too hysterical. “I just—I wish you’d told me!”

“I tried to tell you that night when you asked me if I had ever had a ho—had any experience,” BJ says, still cognizant of the fact that they’re having this conversation over the phone. “We got interrupted by choppers and ambulances and then we never talked about it again, but the way we talked that night…” He trails off. “I just didn’t know how to say it. How you’d take it.”

“ _I_ was the one who brought it up in the first place, I thought _you_ knew about _me_!” Hawkeye’s head is still spinning. “It was just that—given your reputation as Mister Fidelity, I didn’t think you were talking about any of that ‘experience’ happening within the confines of marriage.”

“It was all limited to stateside activity. Nothing in Korea, I was too afraid to try anything under the watch of that man’s army.”

Hawkeye’s chest suddenly hurts. The idea of BJ hiding that part of himself from everyone— _everyone_ —for the entirety of his time at the 4077th makes Hawkeye want to scream, _I was right there. I was there the whole time and I would have done anything and we didn’t know then but now I don’t know what this means now._

“I’m just glad we both know about each other now,” he manages, which is a sentence that makes him feel even more crazy, but he can’t think of anything else to say. “But Beej, if you’re not at home, then what number have I reached you at?”

“Remember the Charles moneylending saga? The one I went through to get the money for the down payment on the land for the beach house?”

“The week he turned into Scrooge? How could I ever forget?”

“Well, we had the house built, and I moved in when I got back, which was the plan all along.”

The pain in Hawkeye’s chest gets sharper. “But you’re all alone in that house?”

“Not all the time, Erin’s here every other week.”

“That’s—that’s not what I mean.” He can’t get the words out.

“I—yes,” BJ says. “I am currently by myself in this house.”

Hawkeye wants to ask, _was everything I thought we could possibly have wrong? Am I crazy, is that all? Do you miss me?_ Instead, he asks, “Do you ever miss it?”

“Yeah,” BJ says. He knows Hawkeye doesn’t mean missing the destruction, the blood, the terror, the exhaustion. “I do miss it all sometimes. But I mostly miss you. A lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course I miss you, Hawk. We spent almost two years living on top of each other and now I don’t know what to do without you breathing down my neck.”

Hawkeye grins, grateful that BJ is on the other side of the country and can’t see his eyes filling with tears. “I can’t tell you how often I find myself walking around the house until I notice that I’m standing in the middle of the floor, not moving at all, just thinking about how much I miss you.”

“So don’t be a stranger to me,” BJ says. “You’re one of the most important people in my life, and I don’t want to lose you, okay?”

“Okay.” Hawkeye’s voice catches. “Okay, Beej.”

He doesn’t want to be the first one to hang up, but waiting in silence for BJ to say anything is worse. “I’m gonna go, I don’t want to run my dad’s phone bill into the heavens—”

“Oh, of course, and it’s late—” 

“Sorry for calling so late—”

“It’s more than okay, Hawkeye. I hope you sleep well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Beej.”

Hawkeye gets up off the kitchen floor and hangs up the phone. For the first time since he’s been home, he allows himself to cry.

_______

  
He keeps Margaret’s note on his bedside table. It becomes an affirmation, a wish, a chant.

 _To Hawkeye, with love.  
_ _Don’t stop now. Keep going._

_______

It’s ten to six in the morning and as per usual, Hawkeye is not sleeping.

He can’t actually remember the last time he slept through the night, usually finding himself pacing the house in the wee hours of the morning, or trying to get the all-night Boston jazz station to come in clearly on the radio, or rereading old letters from BJ. When that happens, he gets dressed, makes himself coffee (leaving half the pot for Dad), and sits at the kitchen table until the sun rises and the day begins again.

Today is one of those days. He’s trying. But being this alone isn’t really living.

The one break in the routine is an odd sound he hears outside the window. It’s not uncommon for deer or turkeys to get close to the house, but they don’t usually make too much noise. He ignores it until the sound moves to the front porch. The paperboy doesn’t come until six thirty, so he knows whatever is causing the noise outside isn’t a newspaper landing on the porch. It’s only when he hears a knock that Hawkeye puts it together that it’s not an animal, and he gets up to answer the door. 

He’s fully shocked to reveal BJ standing on the front porch in the early morning light, looking like he was always meant to be there. 

“Hi, Hawk,” BJ says, placing his suitcase down. “I heard you wanted to see a sunrise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said this was gonna be updated in the "coming days"?? that was a funny joke. anyways, feel free to hit me up on tumblr [@horaetio](https://horaetio.tumblr.com/), any and all comments/kudos appreciated here!! looking forward to sharing the final chapter soon. ✨

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to hit me up on tumblr [@horaetio](https://horaetio.tumblr.com/), any and all comments/kudos appreciated here!! love sharing this fic that has taken over my brain for months.


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